Dean Winchester's Theory of Relativity
by silver ruffian
Summary: Dean's emotional issues are getting in the way of the big bad demon master plan. This is just as crack-filled as "The Culling of the Herd." It ain't Masterpiece Theatre, folks.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Written quickly and unbeta'd, so the fault is mine, all mine. BTW: This takes place_ after_ "The Culling of the Herd."

Summary: Dean's emotional issues are getting in the way of the big bad demonic master plan. Yup, this is just as crack-filled as "Culling" was. What, ya were expectin' "Masterpiece Theatre"?

Disclaimer: I don't own John, Dean, Sam, Meg.

_**SUNDAY**_

"I need you sharp for this, son," John Winchester put his hand on his eldest son's shoulder. Dean swayed a little on his feet. He kept his head down and he wouldn't look at his father.

John's yellow eyes glowed softly as he shook his head sadly at his son's non-reaction. Dean's eyes were a pale hazel, not the fiery yellow he'd woken up with a month ago, when he turned darkside along with his brother Sam.

"Ace." John tightened his grip on Dean's shoulder a little as he leaned in. By Hades, it broke his damn heart to see Dean like that. Broken down. Dispirited. "You're no good to me conflicted like this."

"M'not conflicted." Dean mumbled softly.

"You're not? You drink coffee with whiskey shots all the time now. When was the last time you had a good night's sleep? Spent some quality time with Casey? It's got to stop, Dean. The constant bickering with Meg, the fires, the failed assassination attempts on her life."

Dean looked up sharply. John nodded. "Thought I didn't notice? You're slipping, son. I'd known the time you would've smoked her and nobody would have even _known_ it was you. And the _minions_," John shook his head, partly in awe. "You've incinerated four hundred of them already. It's gotten so nobody wants to work with you _but_ Sam, and you snap and snarl at _him_ all the time."

Dean's shoulders slumped.

"Dean," John rumbled slowly. "Will you do this for me? I can't fight this war without you, son."

Dean sighed.

"Dean?"

"Yessir," Dean whispered hoarsely. "I'll do it."

"Now, you gotta promise me something." DemonJohn put one hand on Dean's shoulder. Dean raised his head and made direct eye contact. "Dr. Thompson is…useful to me. _To us_. I don't want you making a move on him, you hear me, Dean? You've booked for five one hour sessions this week, nine to ten a.m., Monday through Friday."

"Dad," Dean said in a small voice. He sounded like he was four years old instead of twenty eight. "You're making me go see a shrink? Like Dr. Phil?"

John just stared at him. "You're going to do whatever work he tells you to do. You're going to do whatever it takes to get better and you are _not_ going to flame him." John's grip on Dean's shoulder tightened again for emphasis. " Am I making myself clear, Ace?"

"Yessir."

"All right." John nodded in approval. "Your brother's going to drive you in the morning. He'll wait for you until your appointment is over and drive you back."

"I can drive myself," Dean muttered stubbornly.

"Dean," John said warningly. The yellow fire in his eyes flashed a little brighter.

Dean's shoulders slumped in submission. "Yes sir."

"That's my man," John said proudly. He left in a burst of yellow hellfire.

Dean spent the night sitting in the driveway in front of the townhouse hugging the grill and right front bumper of his beloved Impala. He gripped the metal so hard it left marks in his skin. He rocked back and forth and sometimes moaned softly to himself.

_**000**_

Normally Dr. Phillip Thompson didn't pay his dreams that much attention. He occasionally had some pretty wild ones, but he didn't stress too much over it. Dreams were the mind's way of getting rid of the junk it accumulated during waking hours. When Thompson opened his eyes this time it was the same old scene.

Giant four-poster bed?_ Check._

He lay spreadeagled on the bed. CHeck.

His wrists and ankles were loosely tied to the four posts by red silk ribbons. _Check._

So far, so good.

Well, there was _one _difference. A big one.

Victoria Thompson was nowhere to be seen.

Instead a petite blonde in this tight red leather jacket and blue jeans sat on the edge of the bed. Thompson had never seen her before, but it was no big deal. She was just a figment of his imagination. Yeah, sure, that was it.

He was pretty sure it was all a dream because her eyes went pitch black for a moment. She leaned over and smiled at him, and that smile held a promise of indescribable delights.

If only.

If only he said _yes_.

"O-oh…oh-kay." Thompson stuttered. It was only a dream, right? If he said yes, what was the harm?

Meg smiled brightly, leaned forward and kissed him full on the lips. She was still smiling as she pulled back and patted him on the top of his head. "You won't regret this, Doc. This is the beginning of a beautiful relationship."

_**MONDAY**_

They pulled up in front of the office building ten minutes early. Sam tried not to bounce up and down with excitement, but his pitch black eyes shone and he couldn't help grinning like a fucking maniac. It was unseemly for a prince of darkness to act like that, but…_damn_! A chick flick moment!

Involving _Dean_, of_ all_ people. An honest to Lucifer chick flick moment, a major league one, five times a freakin' week this week _at least_! This kind of shit didn't happen when they were on the side of the Greater Good!

Hell, they_ all_ should've turned darkside _years_ ago.

Dean stared at Sam coldly, his yellow eyes hidden by his shades. "Bet you're just lovin' this, aren't ya?"

"Yea-aah." Sam knew he sounded damn goofy but he couldn't help it. He composed himself with a visible effort. "I can sit in on the session if you want me to."

"Yeah, I bet you'd like that, wouldn't you?" Dean's tone was abrupt, harsh. "_Hell, no._ You sit your ass out in the waiting room and wait for me like Dad told you to."

Sam grinned widely. "Emo bitch."

Dean called him everything but a child of God.

Five minutes later Dean stood in the inner office and found himself shaking hands with his own personal shrink.

How low the mighty have fallen.

Dr. Phillip Thompson was a distingushed looking black dude about John's age. His handshake was firm, even though Dean tried his best to break his friggin' hand. The good doctor didn't even seem to notice.

Huh.

He wasn't the least bit put off by Dean's defensive swagger, or the yellow fire in Dean's eyes that wasn't quite hidden by those dark shades. Thompson was almost as tall as Sam, and for some reason that irritated the hell out of Dean. He felt his power surge underneath his skin, curl around his fingertips.

_Come on, dude_, it whispered in his ear. _You know you wanna do this. Flame his touchy feely ass. _

For a brief wild moment Dean considered it.

Then: _If I do, Dad'll be pissed. And anyway, I promised I wouldn't._

_Oh, yeah?_ The darkness inside him answered back. _You said you'd save Sammy when he went darkside. You even said you'd rather kill yourself than go dark. Doing a bang up job with those promises, Ace. The score so far? Emo Girly Stuff: Three. Deanna Winchester: Zero. Nada. Zilch. Nyet. A big fat goose egg-- _

"Shut the fuck up," Dean whispered roughly to himself.

He must've said it out loud, because Thompson looked at him with one raised eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"Nothing," Dean replied a little too quickly. His stomach hurt. His head felt fuzzy and his mouth was dry. He needed a drink. Damn, did he need a drink. He kept looking towards the window, at the outside world. He'd rather be anywhere but _here_…

"Dean -- is it okay with you if I call you Dean?" Thompson said warmly, and Dean nodded. "Make yourself comfortable. You can sit in the chair or lie down on the couch."

Dean stared at him blankly.

"You gonna stand up for the entire session? Either lie down on the couch or sit your ass _down_, boy."

Dean sat on the edge of the couch gingerly, as if any moment the couch fabric was going to grow teeth and bite him on the ass. He reluctantly slipped his shades off. His eyes faded back into a light green color, the whites of his eyes slightly bloodshot. Thompson nodded. "You took a big step, the right step in coming here today, Dean."

Dean rolled his eyes and looked like he was on his way to his own execution.

"Opinions are like asses, everybody's got one." Thompson continued. "I wanna hear yours."

"My…opinions?" Dean squeaked. What the hell? He cleared his throat, deepened his voice. "Opinions about what?"

Better. More John Winchester, less Mickey Mouse.

"Well, about your life. Your ambitions. I wanna hear about what moves you Dean. I wanna hear your hopes and fears."

_Good one, Doc,_ Meg purred smoothly in Thompson's ear.

"Now your father mentioned that you were having a hard time with some emotional issues. We can talk about anything you want to, but I'd really like to talk about your feelings."

"F-feelings?" Dean stammered. "You mean, like, _f-feelings_? Emo stuff? We're gonna do chick flick moments for the next hour?"

Thomspon frowned. _Chick flick moments?_ That was a new one. "Well, yeah..."

Dean shook his head wildly from side to side. "I--I thought I could do this, but I can't --I won't--"

Whoever said the fabric on that couch was fireproof _lied_.

Big time.

The boys left before the first responders showed up. Thompson sighed, reached behind his desk, and pulled out the fire extinguisher filled with holy water. He whistled as he put out the flames, and then he called John Winchester on his cell.

"He did **WHAT**?" John bellowed.

Thompson shrugged as his personal assistant opened all the windows to air the place out. "Well, it's not_ all_ bad. You told him not to flame _me_, and he didn't. I still want him back here tomorrow morning at nine sharp."

"He'll be there if I have to drag his ass through the door in chains," John muttered.

"And I'm sending you a bill for the couch," Thompson added serenely.

"Son of a bitch…"

After John hung up, the good doctor just stood there, swaying slightly as Meg's voice echoed inside his head. _It's okay, baby,_ she purred smoothly, and he shuddered as he imagined her slim fingers brushing across his chest. _Ol' Deano's coming back tomorrow. You did just fine._

**_000_**

**_Well, if you've come this far, I guess you better click on the button and go to Part 2._**


	2. Chapter 2

Dean's in chains and Sam's gone buggy. And the crack fest continues!

Disclaimer: I don't own 'em. And it hurts me to say that, each and every time.

* * *

**_LATE MONDAY NIGHT_**

Dean whimpered in his sleep. Sometimes his eyes rolled open, unseeing. Sometimes they were green, sometimes yellow.

"No…noooo…I don't wanna share my feelings…I don't…" He curled around his pillow, shoulders hunched, clutching the extra-soft, extra large pillow to his chest in a two handed clawed death grip. "…lea' me the hell alone…"

John gently stroked the side of Dean's face. The kid seemed to calm down at his touch, so the elder Winchester sat by the bed and extinguished the fires Dean started with his mind as they cropped up throughout the townhouse.

He meant what he said in that cabin, back before the car crash, about Dean looking after the family above everything else. Well, yeah, at the time he _was_ messing with the boy's head _(evil_, remember?) but, damn, he never seen such single-minded loyalty to family in hundreds of years. The Demon in John could appreciate it. Be a shame to let such a valuable resource go to waste.

Besides, turning Dean along with Sam had a lot of advantages. Let's face it, it efficiently neutralized Dean. No more pesky rescue attempts. The one time they'd tried to lure Sammy over to the dark side by himself Dean responded with a ferocity that made even the hardest evil minion take a giant step back.

_**000**_

Later on that night Sam Winchester sat cross legged in the middle of Ava's living room. He was surrounded by spell books and obscure texts. Ever so often Sam would see something that really interested him, and he'd grab the pencil from behind his ear and hastily scribble the incantation down in that black leather bound notebook of his.

Ava sat curled up on the couch like some auburn haired cat. She put her finger on the open page of the Egyptian Book of the Dead just to mark her place, closed the book and frowned. "Sam, honey, don't you think that your big brother deserves some privacy?"

Sam stopped and looked at Ava.

Ava looked back at Sam.

Then their eyes went pitch black and they both burst out laughing.

_**TUESDAY MORNING**_

"So…you, uh, you really weren't kiddin' about the…" Dean swallowed thickly. He stood there looking like a trapped animal as John snapped first one blue black metal cuff around Dean's right wrist, then his left one. Dean could feel the magic seeping into his skin. He couldn't move unless John willed it, couldn't go anywhere unless John allowed it. _Fuck._

"D-Dad? You don't have to…do…this…" Dean stopped when John raised his head and stared pointedly at him.

Sam drove the Impala, and Dean and Dad sat in the back bench. Dean kept glancing at his Dad's stern profile, and then back down at the chains. He fidgeted in his seat. He quit fidgeting when John gave him a look that could have blistered paint. After that Dean stared down at the floor right next to his boots.

Even the Muzak playing in the office was in on the joke.

_F-Feeel-lingss…whoa… whoa… whoa….F-Feeel-lingss… _

Dean's insides clenched up. Way_ way_ up.

_Satan, if you love me, kill me now_, Dean thought.

John pulled him relentlessly forward as Sammy brought up the rear. Marie the receptionist sat there with a puzzled look on her face. She'd seen all kinds of things since she came to work for Doctor Thompson, but this was…_different_.

That green-eyed stud in the brown leather jacket _was_ wicked cute. And those cuffs around his wrists gave Marie all kinds of naughty ideas the nuns at her old Catholic school definitely would not have approved of.

"Doctor Thompson, your nine o'clock is here." Marie said into the phone. She smiled at the three Winchester men, mainly at Dean, and he smiled back at her, a little weakly. It wasn't his best entrance, being dragged into a shrink's office in chains by his Dad, but Marie didn't care.

Her imagination was off and running.

…_Dean, bed, chains… _

"Dr. Thompson will be with you in a few moments," she said smoothly.

…_whipped cream...peacock feather…_

John looped the end of the chain around his right wrist and sat down. Dean sat down obediently beside him. Sam stood there fidgeting.

"_Sammy_," John said tersely. "_Sit._"

Sam sat. He smiled at Marie and she completely ignored him as she stared at Dean.

Sam sighed wistfully.

Dr. Thompson came out of his inner office and he scowled as he looked at the chains. "Well, you weren't kidding about _that_, were you? Can I have a word with you, John? _Now?_"

John handed off the end of the chain to Sam. Sam thrust his chin out and smirked smugly, and in return Dean gave him one of his best death glares. Of course, the effect was kind of ruined what with the chains and metal cuffs and all, but that didn't stop Dean from giving it his best shot.

Inside the office Thompson pushed the door shut. "Now, John, how do you expect the kid to feel, you dragging him in here like _this_? He's not going to open up with _you _sitting here, either."

"_He needs help, and by Lucifer, he's going to get help…"_ John roared, and outside both boys and even Marie flinched.

Thompson didn't flinch. "I can't help him under these conditions."

"_Conditions_?" John leaned forward, and that murky yellow color in his eyes flared up like a blast furnace. "You don't _like_ these_ conditions_, Thompson?"

"No, I don't."

"He's_ my_ son."

"And he's_ my_ patient. You came to _me_, John, not the other way around. Now, I happen to think that you care about Dean, that you cared enough to bring him here in the first place. I want to help you help me to help Dean."

John blinked. "What the hell does _that_ mean?"

"It means you take the chains off, John. _And you leave. Right now._"

John's growl was so low it vibrated the windowpanes and that glass flower vase on Marie's reception desk. Three minutes later John left the building with cuffs and chains in hand.

Two minutes after that Dean walked into the inner office for the second time in two days.

…_**.etero flicem occu oteriem minos…**_

Less than two minutes after that Sam Winchester stepped out in the hallway and turned himself into a common housefly.

He'd done a dry run over at Ava's place, so by this time he was used to the whole fly POV thing. Sam was surprisingly good at flying. He flew low over the carpet and when he reached the inner office door it was just so damned easy. Sam flew in underneath the space at the bottom of the door.

Once he got inside he saw Dean sitting on the edge of the couch, trying not to rub at his wrists where the cuffs had chafed his skin. Sam could barely contain himself. Damn, all he had to do was_ listen_, and he'd have enough dirt on Dean to torment him for the rest of both their unnatural lives.

Sam was giddy with success. True, his vantage point down in the carpet (_Nice fibers_, he noted_, expensive…they must vacuum in here every night) _wasn't the best, but he was _inside_, he could see and hear _everything_. It was way better than sitting on the other side of that door_. _

Dean fidgeted in his seat. He picked up a _People_ magazine and started leafing through it. Huh. Jensen Ackles was on the cover as the World's Sexiest Man. Dean snorted.

As _if_. Punk.

"All this stuff you're keeping all locked away inside you? It's gonna cause you nothing but trouble. I'm gonna put it in terms you can understand, Dean. That dog don't hunt."

Dean looked up from the magazine just long enough to stare at Thompson pointedly.

"You got to change your life if you want to start living. Okay, Dean, tell me a little about yours." Dean quirked an eyebrow at him. Was this dude for real?

Thompson shrugged. "Doesn't have to be anything big. Or personal."

Dean smirked. "Well, I'm an Aquarius. I like long walks in the moonlight and frisky women."

"Okay. I imagine a nice looking young fella like you doesn't have any problem with the ladies."

"Nope. Haven't had any complaints, that's all I'm sayin'."

Sam rolled his multi-faceted eyes. _Oh, brother…_

It went on like that for the next ten minutes. Dean would shovel out a load of bull and Thompson would seemingly accept it, but Sam had the feeling the good doc was just observing Dean this first go round. After all he had the rest of the week to poke around inside that thick skull of Dean's.

What happened next probably _wouldn't_ have happened if Sam had just stayed put.

Once he and Dean were talking about some sneaky civilians they'd had to deal with on a gig up in Washington state and later on Dean used the expression "Dude, I wish I'd been a fly on _that _wall…"

It was_ brilliant_. It was _inspired_. And it had come straight from Dean himself.

And _that's_ when Sam screwed up. _Big time_.

He flew up from the carpet and landed on the far wall. The wall was painted a soothing beige color. _Very_ soothing, and _very_ expensive looking. After having spent most of his young life out on the road in shoddy, sleazy motel rooms and backwoods cabins, Sam had naturally developed an appreciation for the finer things in life.

Dean kept right on talking about a recurring dream of his that involved _Baywatch_ female lifeguards with 38D breasts in too small orange swimsuits running along the beach in slow-motion.

Sam got a little distracted by the smooth feel of the paint underneath his fuzzy little fly legs. He didn't even notice when Dean focused on the wall and his eyes narrowed.

Dean frowned, rolled up the magazine and got up from the couch.

Stealthily.

Sam-fly never even saw the big smackdown coming, but he sure in the heck felt it when it landed right on top of him.

Thompson sat back in his chair and watched with interest.

"Help me. Help meee," the Samfly squeaked as it lay crumpled face down in the plush expensive beige carpet, its legs, wings and antenna bent in all kinds of uncomfortable directions.

"Flies," Dean shuddered as he sat back down on the couch. "Hate those damn things."

Thompson shrugged. "I thought flies went with the whole evil thing,"

Dean sniffed. "That's lower level demons you're thinking of. Demon scum. Like Meg."

He wanted to walk out, but there was still another seventeen minutes on the clock. He could deal for another seventeen freakin' minutes.

Sam was too busy dealing with the sudden burst of pain that was his whole world right now.

"Speaking of Meg," Thompson drawled, and Dean scowled a little. _Nice segue, bitch_, he thought sourly. _Oh no you don't…_

"I keep a ruler by my bed," Dean said simply.

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah." Dean sighed soulfully. He paused for a second or two, then: "I measure myself every morning. To see if I got bigger during the night."

_Yeah baby,_ Meg crowed. _Let's hear it. I wanna hear it all, big fella. Give it to me!_

Seventeen minutes later Dean sauntered out at_ exactly_ ten o'clock.

No fires. Thompson couldn't help smiling to himself. He was alive and in one piece, not toasted, Dean was coming back for tomorrow's session. Willingly. And Meg was pleased.

Very very pleased.

Things were looking up.

And Sam was _gone_.

"Uh…hi." Dean was so preoccupied by Sam ditching him that he totally missed the head to toe look Marie gave him when he stopped in front of her desk.

Marie smiled at him brightly. "Hi."

"My brother…big tall shaggy kid. Sasquatch." A small crease of irritation formed between Dean's eyes. "He didn't wait around for me?"

"No, I didn't notice when he left." _Um, he's bow-legged too. _Marie thought. _Ride 'em, cowboy…_

"Oh. Well."

"Will, ah, will you be back tomorrow?" Marie knew he would be. She just wanted to hear that smooth deep voice for as long as possible.

"Yeah. Uh, minus the chains. My Dad's an ex-Marine." Dean chuckled weakly, waved his right hand in a handflap. "That -- that was just his idea of a joke--"

"You wore those chains well," Marie purred smoothly.

"I -- huh? _I did_?"

"Oh, yes."

"Well…thanks, I think," Dean mumbled softly.

Hell. He'd come back tomorrow. Sure.

His good mood disappeared like a snowball in a blast furnace when he got to the Impala. First he had to pick his baby's door lock, and then he had to hotwire her.

_Are we having fun yet, you big old girly man? _The darkness inside Dean whispered.

_Thompson: Two. _

_Deanna Winchester: Zero._

Damn.

**000**

**Huh, you're still here, huh? Clicky down below for the third and final part. And I'd appreciate it if you'd let me know what you think. **


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N:**_ The voices in my head tell me this is the third and final part.

"Sarcasm is anger's ugly cousin." Yes, I lifted, I mean _borrowed_ that from Adam Sandler's movie "Anger Management".

Disclaimer: I don't own them.

Really? I don't?

_**TUESDAY NIGHT**_

Yep, they certainly _did_ vaccum the damn carpet.

Every damn night.

Sometime later a disheveled black eyed Sam Winchester re-formed and managed to drag himself out of the dumpster behind Phil Thompson's building. By this time Sam was sticky with orange juice that had spilled out of a bottle in the trash. A banana peel got stuck in his hair and it was just his luck that somebody had thrown out their left-over tuna fish salad.

In short, Sam reeked.

It took him several hours to hitchhike over to the townhouse he and Dean shared. Sam's cellphone didn't survive being smashed and he had to dive back into the dumpster to retrieve his house keys.

_And_ the keys to the Impala.

"Hey, Dean." The grin on Sam's face was wide and forced as he opened the door and stepped inside the front hallway.

Dean frowned up. "Hey yourself. You ditched me today, Sammy. Where the hell did you get to?"

"Oh, ah…I was around." Sam shrugged.

Dean put his hand out. "Keys?"

"Keys?" Sam repeated blankly.

Dean quirked an eyebrow at his brother. "Keys. To. My. Car? I had to hotwire my baby. She didn't appreciate that, Sammy."

"Oh. Oh yeah." Sam dug into his pockets and pulled the keys out, dropped them into Dean's outstretched hand.

Dean wrinkled his nose and sniffed the air. He gingerly took the keys and dangled them carefully between his thumb and forefinger. "What the hell, Frances? You smell like a friggin' landfill."

Sam's shit-eating grin got a little wider.

"So…ah," Sam shifted his weight from foot to foot. "Dr. Phil. You ah, goin' back tomorrow?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Yeah."

"Is ….ah, is Dad going to have to _make_ you go back?"

Dean sighed. "Why? You got some secret kink about seein' me in chains that I don't know anything about? No. You're supposed to drive me over there. Again."

"Then could I --"

"Hell no. You sit your ass in the waiting room like Dad told you. Don't disappear like you did today, okay? Give me my damn car keys before I go in and I'll give 'em to you when I come back out." Dean jingled the keys and was already thinking about how the hell he was going to clean the damn things off. Ugh. "I don't like hotwiring my girl. She's sensitive that way."

"Disappear?" Sam repeated absently.

Invisibility. Better than the transformation spell. What the hell had he been thinking?

A good idea is a good idea.

_**WEDNESDAY **_

Same crap, different day.

"I cry during sex," Dean whimpered.

_Uh huh_, Meg thought. _Figures._

"You need to listen to your body because your body is listening to you," Thompson said, and even Meg frowned up when she heard that one. What the hell?

The good doctor was on a roll. "Giraffes are green and blue. Sometimes you just got to give yourself what you wish someone else would give you. The sun's in a box and I lost the key."

Dean quirked an eyebrow at him. "I see somebody didn't take their medication today, Doc."

_You're off topic,_ Meg hissed in Thompson's ear. _Get him to tell you what he's afraid of._

It happened sometimes, when she possessed somebody but let them retain just enough control. Sometimes their brains got scrambled, like now.

_If I do that,_ Thompson's thought voice was small, timid, _can we use those silk ribbons tonight? The red ones?_

Meg rolled her eyes. _Oh, all right._

"Sarcasm is anger's ugly cousin, Dean. This is all about you. We're talking about you interacting with the rest of us. This relationship needs a hero. You gonna just coast through life like this? You gotta let people know who you really are."

Dean then launched into a long, drawn out stream of consciousness thing about something that happened to him when he was younger. "And one time, in band camp, there was this girl named Michelle, and I stuck a flute in her …"

He went on and on. Meg actually started wondering why John Winchester didn't have his eldest son neutered. At age nine.

"I like pie." Dean was clearly warming up to the subject. " 'specially apple pie. You know why? It feels like third base. All warm and juicy. Yep, her apple pie was freakin' worth it."

Meg didn't want to admit it, but this was getting tedious. Sex sex sex. It was all this chucklehead talked about. She liked sex just as much as the next depraved hell demon out here, but this was ridiculous.

The real entertainment was Sammy, and he didn't fail to disappoint.

Invisibility was so last century, and so lackluster, man.

The thing is, Sam must have written the damn spell down wrong. It didn't work. Not only that, he had a terrible headache for the rest of the day and his balls turned bright orange.

Sam decided to quit while he was ahead.

Ten o'clock couldn't come soon enough on Wednesday.

_**THURSDAY**_

Thursday was a bust. An epic fail.

"I want to help you help me to help yourself."

"What the fuck does that mean?" Dean looked like he was ready to bolt out the door.

"What did you want to be when you grew up?"

"A lawyer," Dean whimpered.

There were holes in Dean's defenses, sure enough, but overall he hadn't given up a thing. He wouldn't talk about his fears, and even Sam was having an off day, apparently. The schtick for today was astral projection. When Meg sensed him coming through the wall she cast a blocking spell that bounced him right back into his body.

Then, just to teach him a lesson, she made his balls turn sunflower yellow. And shrink to the size of raisins. She saw what happened to him yesterday. A good idea was a good idea.

Meg was feeling mean.

The only thing she could think of was, _One more day after this._ One more day to find out Dean's weaknesses so she could use them against him. She decided right then and there that when the end came she was going to torture Dean slowly. Very, very slowly. She was going to make him suffer, because Satan knows she'd suffered these last few days.

Doc Thompson was one needy so-and-so.

_**FRIDAY**_

At nine seventeen a.m. Dean suddenly looked all hollow-eyed and haunted. "I'm…I'm afraid."

"Afraid of _what_, Dean?"

"Clowns. Ronald McDonald." Thompson watched with interest as Dean's broad shoulders began to shake.

Even though she didn't have lungs in her current state, Meg held her breath. Dean was on the edge, and the walls came tumbling down.

He shed one perfect tear and let it all out.

_**000**_

He'd followed Dad's orders. He'd done his time and had some fun doing it. Now he was in the clear.

Plus, he'd whupped Sammy's ass this week. That fly transformation bit was so damn juvenile Dean felt embarrassed for him. What was he, freaking four? And that invisibility spell? It would have worked but Dean knew the countermeasure.

He'd thrown in that bit about Sam's color coded privates just for grins.

_Orange balls,_ Dean thought with glee._ Am I velvety smooth or what?_

He was pretty pleased with himself. He kept his sunglasses on and allowed Sammy to drive his girl. Sam fidgeted around behind the wheel, but he stopped when Dean growled softly, "You better settle yourself, Samantha, 'cause if you put one scratch on my baby I will kick your ass from here to Florida."

Sam settled himself.

If Sasquatch didn't hear anything when he was that damn fly, when he was ghosting through walls, or when he tried to become invisible, Dean sure in the hell wasn't going to do him any favors and fill in the blanks. What goes on in Doc Thompson's inner office, stays in Doc Thompson's inner office.

It was all according to Dean Winchester's Theory of Relativity: Your family can run you crazy if you let 'em. But remember, boys and girls, that door swings both ways.

No doubt about it. Dean sighed contentedly as he settled back against the seat cushion.

_LIFE. WAS. GOOD._

Meg was _next_.

Who the _hell_ did that skank think she was fooling?

On the second day he could see Meg hiding just underneath the good doctor's skin. Right then and there Dean decided that he really didn't have very many options. He could have gone back to John, of course, and he had no doubt that Dad would have believed him, but then that meant that Meg could always come back at him another day, another way.

Besides, only a bitch would go running off like that, running off to Daddy, expecting him to handle his problems. Say what you will, he might be evil now, and bound for hell, but Dean Winchester was no bitch. _No way, no how._ Never had been, never would be.

He _had_ been feeling tired and run down, even though he'd never admit it. And really, once he figured out what was really going on, just the idea of fucking with Meg and Sam was more than enough to put a spring back in Dean's step. It was just what he needed, something devious to occupy his time and his mind. It was something useful, not those emo bits and chick flick moments.

He'd always been able to cry on command, and instead of blubbering all over himself like some big old girl, that single tear running down his cheek was a hell of a lot more effective than totally breaking down like a girly man, all red-eyed and snot-nosed.

It worked on just about everybody. Every single damn time.

And everything he'd told Meg had been _Sammy's _stuff. _Not his._ Of course the bitch was going to try to use it against him, and when she did you could put a fork in her, 'cause she was _done_.

_Dean Winchester for the win, _Dean crowed to himself. _Everyone else? A big fat zero._

**000 **

Marie the receptionist came over later and spent the night. Sam didn't get much sleep, what with the banging and squeaking and the yelling and the moaning _("Oh, Dean! Dean! Yes! Yess_s!") but neither Dean nor Marie had much sympathy for him.

Sam finally gave up and went over to Ava's house.

Earlier that same day Dean went to John to ask a favor. John quirked an eyebrow at him but he didn't ask Dean why he needed to borrow those chains from earlier in the week.

_**000**_

_**TWO DAYS LATER:**_

The Evil Clown Apocalypse hit the West Coast at approximately 9:45 in the morning. It was an independent operation, one not sanctioned by John Winchester and his demon horde. Dean and Sam were dispatched to clean up the mess. Sam reportedly balked until he received formal orders from his father: "You gotta stare Bozo right in the face and don't blink, Sammy."

Meg Masters was not present during this exchange. If she had, perhaps this story would have ended differently.

Meg and a carload of her most devoted demon minions disappeared the same day they arrived in California with the Winchester brothers.

To this date, Meg has not been seen since. In either place.

There were plenty of rumors, of course. Angels from Heaven were alleged to have come down and dragged them screaming and shrieking up to Heaven. The Front Office issued a statement flatly denying the charge: "If we had them," Saint Peter grumbled, "we'd make an example of their sorry asses. Yeah, you heard me. I said it."

The general consensus was that if Meg was _that _damn sloppy and her minions were that damn stupid, then none of them deserved to be topside in the first place. No great loss.

Sam Winchester had daily sessions with Dr. Phillip Thompson for two months afterwards. He'd stared Bozo in the face, all right. And blinked.

"Can't sleep," Sam said over and over again. "Clown will eat me..."

Dean Winchester was unavailable for comment.

_**000**_

**_Oh. So you read the whole thing, huh? Thanks! You wanna leave a review, or what?_**


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